


Certain Drawbacks

by Ignaz Wisdom (ignaz)



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-31
Updated: 2006-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/Ignaz%20Wisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Monday and he's getting shot at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certain Drawbacks

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Natlet for the initial look-over and for telling me to go for the sex. Thank you to Nos4a2no9 and Chris for fantastic (and speedy!) beta. All remaining mistakes are mine. Feedback and concrit are welcome.

> _Kowalski: You know, being your partner has certain drawbacks._
> 
> Fraser: Such as?

* * *

It's Monday and he's getting shot at. Figures. Nice day in September, blue sky, good weather, walking back to the station after lunch, minding his own business -- of course he's gonna get shot at. Why the hell not? 'Cause Fraser's there -- as usual -- and as they're walking along he spies a "malefescent" or whatever -- as usual -- and so they gotta go chase the guy. As usual.

"Ray," Fraser says, that note of quiet urgency in his voice cutting straight to the cop part of Ray's brain, and then he's off, a red blur wearing a great big hat. Then Ray is off right after him, pounding the pavement and cursing his partner with every step.

The dumb Mountie was a freaking crime magnet. He couldn't step outside without some act of petty theft or vandalism occurring right under his nose. It was like some vast criminal call network: _attention all bad guys! Benton Fraser is walking to work -- quick, somebody snatch a purse! Benton Fraser is picking up his boss's dry-cleaning -- quick, somebody throw a punch!_

So here they are, crouching behind some seriously inadequate dumpsters in a narrow alley with a pair of asshole kids, no more than twenty years old, taking pot shots at them and giggling wildly. The kids are stoned out of their minds, of course, and isn't that just fucking peachy. He wonders when his life became a never-ending sequence of near-death experiences. Wasn't when he became a cop. Wasn't when he made detective. No, he thinks furiously, it was the very fucking day he started working with Benton Fraser.

It's not that he doesn't like the guy, 'cause he does. He liked Fraser from Day One, even if Day One was a little weird, what with the flaming car and the rubber ducks and Fraser sticking his tongue in electrical sockets. But even if he didn't know what the hell he was doing, he knew that he liked Benton Fraser. He was a guy Ray could work with.

And yeah, okay -- he also _liked_ liked Fraser, but after one day (and one night) of "my partner is a walking wet dream" freak-out, he started to get used to the Mountie. First, he started to figure out that Fraser was a world-class, capital-F freak. The freak factor really helped to cool his jets. There was nothing in the world, Ray realized, that could kill a guy's interest in someone, like watching said someone lick pre-chewed gum from off the sidewalk.

Second, he figured out that when Fraser's not being a freak, he's actually a pretty good _friend_. He's funny, for one, even if it's in a way that sort of sneaks up on you and whacks you upside the head -- and loyal like you wouldn't believe. Fraser is the kind of guy you can talk to about your ex-wife, and even if you're maybe sort of crazy about the whole thing, and he doesn't really _approve of your actions, Ray_, he'll still slam a door into your ex-wife's new boyfriend's groin for you, and even make it look sort of accidental and polite.

So he likes Fraser -- really, he does. It's just that he likes Fraser a whole lot more when they're interrogating someone, or eating Chinese food, and not so much during those times when Fraser puts him in a situation where he's about to get killed. Unfortunately, those about-to-get-killed moments have recently been outnumbering the Chinese moments, leading Ray to just _this_ very moment: on a Monday, in an alley, getting shot at.

"Chicago P.D.!" he shouts as another bullet ricochets off the dumpster with a loud _ping_. "As if you freaking care!" He roughly pushes his glasses further up his nose, pops his head over the top of their shelter, and fires once before crouching back down again, banging his funny bone on the side of the dumpster on his way back down.

Swearing, he looks over at Fraser, crouched beside him, and -- oh, hell no. Fraser is looking back at him, with that half-anxious half-determined look that just screams "Ray, I am about to do something that I know will anger you, and which is probably both really fucking stupid and really fucking dangerous, but I'm gonna do it anyway, because getting the both of us nearly killed is what butters my bizarre Canadian muffin." Fraser is crouching, and Ray knows that that means he's about half a second from sticking his big dumb head over the top of the dumpster and suggesting to the stoned kids with the guns that they all sit down and discuss their differences over tea -- which means that he's about one full second from getting his head blown off, and probably Ray's, too.

One quarter of a second before Fraser can do just that, the instant that Fraser looks away from him, Ray lunges at him, knocking Fraser's hat off and flattening his partner on the ground. Ray promptly sits on him, legs on either side of Fraser's body, pinning Fraser down with 160 pounds of Chicago cop. "_No_," he hisses, splaying the fingers of his left hand and pushing Fraser -- hard -- down into the dirty cement.

Fraser, probably not really used to his co-workers jumping him behind dumpsters, takes a bewildered second to recover. "Ray," he says, sounding shocked and vaguely offended. His arms are caught between his sides and Ray's legs, and his cheeks are slightly pink. Ray isn't sure if that's from the running-hiding-getting-shot-at thing or if it's just embarrassment at being knocked flat. Or maybe Fraser's pissed because Ray just desecrated the uniform. Another bullet hits the dumpster -- he doesn't have time to think about it.

"No fucking way, Fraser," he says, and pushes a little harder at his partner's serge-covered chest for emphasis. He leans back just far enough to stick his head and his gun around the side of the dumpster to fire again.

Fraser takes this moment of distraction and imbalance to try and break free, executing a move that Ray can't call anything but "wriggling." It's this wriggling that brings Fraser's groin in direct contact with Ray's ass for a split second and distracts the hell out of both of them, apparently, because Ray is gawking at his partner, who stares back up at him, sort of blankly. Ray isn't sure what that means, and while he's trying to figure it out, Fraser lurches up and forward, knocking Ray off balance and tumbling him to the ground, flat on his back. Fraser's on his knees, trying to get to his feet, and then he's going to run out into the middle of the goddamn alley like a giant red target -- so Ray grabs at him, grapples at him, while Fraser tries to shake him off, muttering "Ray!" in that prissy, put-upon way he has. There's a scuffle, and then -- OW! fucking OW! Fraser's elbow whacks Ray in the eye, and that's gorgeous, that's just fucking wonderful. It feels like his eyeball has been knocked clear into the back of his skull, and he knows he's going to have the shiner of a lifetime in a matter of hours, and with not even a good, tough-guy story to go with it. He lets go of Fraser, who doesn't even stop to ask if he's all right, which means that Fraser is seriously pissed off.

The next thing Ray knows, he's alone behind the dumpster, hand pressed to his eye, listening to Fraser's smooth voice as he informs the armed kids that if they'll just hand him their weapons, _my partner, Detective Vecchio, will read you your rights_ \-- and of course they just fucking _do_, because Fraser's freakishly good fortune has just kicked in and the kids are out of ammo.

So he gets to his feet, face throbbing, and glares at Fraser as best he can with only one fully functional eye while he handcuffs the kids and reads them their rights.

* * *

It's still Monday, and he's back at his apartment with a massive headache and the damned Mountie on his heels like some trained dog. Fraser's looking tense, and Ray would almost feel bad for him, if Fraser wasn't entirely to blame for the whole damned situation.

He'd gone home early, right after they'd handed the kids over at the station. Fraser, of course, insisted on going back with him, to look after his eye, and no amount of nay-saying would make him give it up.

So here they are, back at Ray's apartment, where Ray would really rather be left alone to steam, because -- fuck it! They're cops, human beings, not superheroes, and he's too old for this shit. They shouldn't have to get nearly killed every fucking day! He's okay with getting shot at, sometimes, but there are plenty of other times where he'd just like to eat his lunch and then get back to the station in one piece, without a black eye and two armed felons in tow.

Furious, he grits his teeth and doesn't reply when Fraser hands him a plastic bag full of ice wrapped in a dishtowel, but he sits down on the couch and lets Fraser kneel in front of him with a concerned expression and a little tin of disgusting folk medicine goop that he probably made from the entrails of the wild Arctic muskrabbit or something. He even lets Fraser poke and prod at his face, feeling around for any other injuries. But Fraser's not off the hook -- oh, hell no. They're going to have a talk about this -- about Fraser always trying to get him killed, and never understanding those neat little boundaries called _reason_ and _sanity_.

"Ow," he mumbles when Fraser's wandering fingers push on a particularly painful spot, and he presses the bag of ice closer to his swollen eye, swatting half-heartedly at Fraser with his other hand.

And that's when a funny thing happens: Fraser catches Ray's hand in his own and turns it over. He looks down at Ray's palm like he's never seen it before, fingers wrapped around Ray's wrist, thumb moving idly over the base.

Ray is confused. He wonders if he's the only person here with a head injury, or if palm reading just happens to be another one of Fraser's freakish talents. But then the moment is over, and Fraser is placing Ray's hand firmly on Ray's knee and releasing him. He stands up, resettles himself at the far end of the couch, and looks Ray in the eye, a puzzled expression on his face.

Ray stares right back, determined, but when nothing happens, he finally blurts, "What?"

Fraser clears his throat and averts his eyes. "Ray," he says, sounding sort of anxious, "I can't help feeling that I've done something to anger you."

Ray continues to stare at him, still trying to comprehend how any human being, let alone one as smart as Benton Fraser, could be so dense. Then he lets the bag of ice drop to the floor and buries his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, trying with every bone in his body to not hit something. Fraser, thank God, has enough good sense at the moment to shut up and wait him out.

After a minute, Ray looks back up at his partner, and asks tightly, "Fraser, do you have any idea how many times I've been involved in a gunfight since I started working with you?"

Fraser looks back, a mild expression on his face. "I'm afraid not, Ray."

"Me neither. But the point is, Fraser, it's a lot more than I was ever in _before_ I started working with you."

Fraser returns his stare, sort of neutrally, and then glances around the room, as if the appropriate reply to this comment could be found somewhere among Ray's clutter and dust. "I'm not sure I follow," he says.

Ray bites down hard on his tongue. "I want to live to see retirement. The rate we're going, I'm not sure I'm gonna make it."

After a second, comprehension dawns on Fraser's face, followed immediately by confusion. "And you believe that working with me has elevated the level of risk associated with your work as a police officer?"

He's gonna punch him. He's gonna punch Fraser. But punching Fraser isn't going to make him feel better, so he punches the couch cushions instead and yells.

"Fraser, I am sick and tired of getting almost killed every single goddamn day that I am with you!"

Fraser looks taken aback, and he sounds sort of shocked when he says, "Ray, we are officers of the law. We are honor-bound to prevent crime and to pursue miscreants whenever we find them."

"But you find them too fucking often, Fraser!" Ray shoots to his feet and paces the room, gesticulating furiously. "Seems like every time you go out, you run into somebody who's waving a gun around or taking a hostage or stealing a car or holding up a convenience store, and every time, we gotta chase ‘em, and I usually hit my head on something and get almost killed, and then you have to stick your big dumb unarmed Canuck head out and nearly get it _shot off_, and then I have to risk my skinny neck to keep you from dying, and at some point we usually get covered in garbage or something else disgusting, and -- damn it, Fraser! It's like you go out of your way to almost kill me!"

He stops pacing and turns to stare Fraser down, jittering on his feet, expecting some dense and annoyingly subdued response that will only make him want to haul off and belt his partner again. But Fraser only sits quietly, hands in his lap, and looks at Ray's bruised, flushed face, with that same unreadable expression that he had in the alley behind the dumpster, and that he had while looking at Ray's hand: the non-verbal equivalent of Fraser's "hmm"s and "ah"s. Ray can imagine the gears in Fraser's head turning, processing Ray's outburst and anger and trying to come up with an appropriately Canadian response, which will no doubt be some super-polite variation on "tough shit." Fraser doesn't get it, Ray _knows_ that Fraser doesn't get it. Like the self-preservation part of his brain that should be there is just plain missing, or like maybe it's replaced by some imaginative brain part that's exclusively in charge of developing newer and smellier ways to get Ray almost-killed every single day.

Fraser's thinking again, oh yeah -- probably about how to get Ray almost-killed on _Tuesday_ and on _Wednesday_ and on _Thursday_ and on _Friday_ ...

But actually, no, Ray realizes, as Fraser stands up and walks right into his personal space -- Fraser isn't thinking about killing him at all. In fact, Fraser's thinking about kissing him, because _oh holy shit that's just exactly what he's doing._ Fraser's hands are warm and a little damp on either side of his face, barely touching him, and Ray leans into it instinctively, his mind a complete blank. Fraser's mouth is closed but firm, almost chaste, but with just enough persistence to make it immediately, abundantly clear that --

Ray reluctantly pulls his face away, parting their mouths, and tries hard not to notice the deer-in-the-headlights look on Fraser's face. His eyes narrow. "Are you patronizing me?"

In response, Fraser's eyes widen and he takes a step back. "No," he says, quickly. "Not at all, Ray. I apologize if my -- actions -- caused you to believe that I was dismissing your concerns." He looks away, around the room again, and a small corner of his tongue sneaks out to wet the corner of his mouth.

Something twitches inside of Ray at the sight. "So what was -- what was that all about?"

Fraser shifts his feet and his hands disappear behind his back like he's going to stand at parade rest, like his boss is right there in Ray's living room with the two of them. "Ah," he says. "It would seem that -- that is, I have come to understand -- well, actually, what I mean to say is --"

"_What_, Fraser."

Fraser swallows and barely manages to look Ray in the eye. "I'm afraid," he admits, "that I have developed a visceral reaction to the intensity of your displays of vexation."

Ray looks at Fraser's throat, which moves slightly as Fraser swallows, then takes a step back and considers this. "Vexation, huh?"

"Yes, Ray, I'm afraid so."

"Huh." He brings his right hand up to stroke his chin, breaking down Fraser's confession and trying to translate from Canadian to American. "You saying I'm cute when I'm mad?"

He can already see the back of Fraser's neck turning pink. Fraser tugs carefully at the stiff collar of his tunic. "In a manner of speaking."

Ray grins, feeling a little flattered and a little silly. Then he gets mad again.

"Fraser, are you deliberately trying to piss me off because it turns your crank to see me get angry at you?"

Fraser's entire face flushes and he looks aghast. "No, Ray! Absolutely not! Or --"

"Or?"

"Or ... at least not with any conscious intentions."

Fraser's looking kind of panicked there, and also kind of resigned: all pink-faced and trapped, and even though Ray knows it's stupid, he kind of likes seeing the "about to get killed" look on _Fraser's_ face for just once in their partnership.

So Ray smirks, and goes in for the kill.

"Are you saying you might have some _un_-conscious ... intentions?"

And Fraser must be some kind of psychic -- or maybe he just knows Ray better than anyone's ever known Ray -- because all of a sudden he _gets it_, and they're on the same page. Fraser's "about to get killed" look fades, and then Fraser is smiling a little. He takes a step forward into Ray's personal space.

"Ray," Fraser says, in a voice that could melt all of Canada, "I have all sorts of intentions."

And this is -- this is _flirty_ Fraser! Fraser is flirting with him! Ray's practically bouncing on his heels, and he kind of wants to do a little victory dance, a little "about to get laid" dance, which is an entirely different feeling than the "about to get killed" one he's been dealing with. Not that he's just going to let Fraser brush that one under the rug, of course. They're still going to have to have a serious talk about it. Later. Much later. Much, much later, at a time when he isn't stepping right up into Fraser's personal (extremely personal) space and returning his partner's earlier favor, this time with tongue.

But touching Fraser -- being finally able to touch him like _this_ \-- gives Ray such a rush that he's not sure he'll be able to remember anything they were just fighting about. All he can think of, and all he thinks he'll ever be able to remember for the rest of his life, is how soft Fraser's hair feels under and around his fingers, and how perfect Fraser's warm, solid body feels pressed up against his own. He isn't sure that he'll ever be able to think again, now that Fraser is opening his mouth and letting Ray in, accepting him, meeting him every step of the way.

Fraser doesn't seem to be able to do much thinking either. His mouth is earnest, pushy, demanding -- but never asking for any more than Ray is perfectly willing to give. His fingers are everywhere. The smooth tips of Fraser's fingers are running over Ray's face -- over his closed, bruised eye, like he's made of something really special, like china or silk, and that thought is just so ridiculous that Ray starts to laugh a little, right into Fraser's questing mouth.

Fraser pulls away slightly and frowns at him.

"It's okay, it's fine," Ray says, grinning like a loon and not even the least little bit embarrassed about it. He wraps his hand around the nape of Fraser's neck. "It's just -- jeez, you could have said something, you know?"

Fraser's answering smile is a little sheepish and a little miffed. "So could you," he murmurs, and then the smile fades as a different Fraser-look, one that Ray is starting to recognize and one that he's definitely starting to like, replaces it. Then Fraser takes Ray's face in his hands again, thumbs smoothing over the hair near Ray's temples. He gazes intently at Ray's mouth, closes his eyes, and leans in for another kiss.

So as it turns out, Fraser is not just a guy Ray can work with -- he's a guy that Ray can make out with, too. And licking gum off of sidewalks, getting Ray almost killed, and being a gigantic freak ultimately cannot put a damper on Ray's crazy libido, which is telling him in no uncertain terms to get Fraser naked and in the sack, pronto.

With that thought, it's Ray's turn to pull away and stop the kissing, which he does, reluctantly. The first try doesn't really work, because Fraser's not having any of it, and he makes fists in Ray's hair and sticks his tongue right back into Ray's mouth, and it's another minute or so before Ray can free himself enough to ask. He has to put a hand over Fraser's mouth to do it, though -- because Fraser is like some sort of animal, not letting go of Ray's lips for anything.

Ray grips Fraser's shoulder with his other hand and jerks his head towards the bedroom. "You want ..." he says, not even bothering to finish the question, because Fraser is already pulling Ray's hand away, covering his mouth again, and marching Ray backwards out of the living room.

Ray takes that as a "yes."

Moments later, he's being backed into his dark bedroom. Fraser's hands are under his T-shirt, fingers pressing into Ray's hips. When Ray's knees hit the edge of the bed, they give, and he sits down hard, accidentally causing Fraser's hands to slide upwards, taking Ray's shirt with them. But Fraser's mouth follows Ray's, so there's a momentary struggle between the urgent need to kiss and the equally urgent need to strip. Fraser's tongue is still in Ray's mouth, and Fraser's hands stroke Ray's chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples again and again, until Ray can't take it anymore. When he finally pulls his mouth away to gasp for air, Fraser, ever efficient, takes the opportunity to yank the shirt over Ray's head and off.

"Jesus, Fraser," Ray manages to say, reaching out to grab a handful of red serge. He figures there are roughly eight million buttons and buckles and whatevers on Fraser's uniform -- but they've been partners for a while now, and Ray's spent a lot of time studying that uniform. Mostly he chalked that up to an interest in how Fraser got _in_ to the damn thing, but he's now willing to admit that it was maybe more of an interest in how Fraser got out of it.

"Ray," Fraser murmurs, his hands roaming all over Ray's exposed back and chest. "You have no idea. You have no idea --"

"I'm starting to get an idea," Ray says, groaning a little as Fraser's wandering hand makes it to the front of his jeans and shapes his erection through the material. "I like your ideas, Frase." He tugs gently at the uniform. "Help me with this, will ya?"

Fraser does, and he's obviously done it a lot, because he doesn't even need to look down at the buttons. He keeps his eyes glued to Ray, to Ray's mouth and his chest and his groin. While Ray misses the kissing, watching Fraser watch him with that starved intensity more than makes up for the temporary loss.

Fraser doffs the red jacket, but hesitates -- and, because he's Fraser, looks around nervously for a place to hang it up. On the bed, Ray thinks about getting mad, or maybe making fun of Fraser for being the kind of guy who can't fuck without first making sure that his suit isn't getting wrinkled. But the late afternoon sun is coming through the window blinds, and they've got the rest of the day off -- and Fraser's face is pink and he's breathing pretty heavy, so Ray figures he can afford to be patient. Fraser isn't going anywhere.

Ray leans back on his elbows and jerks his head in the direction of the closet. "Hangers in there," he says, and Fraser flashes him a grateful look before turning away.

Ray discovers an unexpected benefit to offering up his closet space, as he watches Fraser pull the white Henley over his head. The smooth, strong muscles of Fraser's back move as he hangs the shirt up neatly. When Fraser bends over to remove the boots and his strange Mountie pants, Ray can't stop himself from undoing his own jeans and sliding a hand inside, feeling his cock twitch. Fraser turns, catches him, and blushes a little -- and if Ray thought that looked good on Fraser on a normal day, it looks about a million times better when Fraser's horny and wearing nothing but his boxers.

Fraser is gorgeous. And Ray knew that, of course, knew he had to be like something sculpted out of marble under that uniform, but actually getting to _see_ him like this -- stripped bare, breathing heavily, cock straining at his white shorts -- it's almost too much. Because Ray knows him, and he knows that Benton Fraser is not a man who strips down to his skivvies for just anyone -- but he's doing it for Ray.

He can't tear his eyes away. "You been holdin' out on me," he says, in what he hopes is a kind of come-hither voice. It works, or something does, because Fraser licks the corner of his lips and wastes no time whatsoever getting back across the room and pulling Ray's mouth to his.

"I didn't know," Fraser mumbles into Ray's chin, his neck, and his shoulder. "I didn't know that I could." Fraser tugs at Ray, dragging him properly onto the bed. Ray shifts and groans as Fraser climbs over him, pressing him into the mattress and lining their cocks up just right. It's perfect, it's heaven -- and then it's even better, because he's lifting his head and watching as Fraser kisses a path down his chest, making a beeline for his dick.

Ray grabs Fraser's shoulders and laughs a little as Fraser buries his nose in the sparse hair below his navel and breathes in deep. Then Fraser is sliding a hand into the open fly of Ray's jeans, hooking his fingers under the waistband of Ray's underwear, and pulling everything down his legs -- and Ray suddenly finds himself struggling for air. Because now Fraser's hand is curling around his cock, stroking slowly, and Fraser's mouth is dangerously wet. Blue eyes trail back up Ray's torso and Fraser stares at his face, questioning.

Ray's mind is gone. His dick is hard, his heart is pounding, and his brain is off to a thousand different places. Fraser's into this. Fraser's into _him_. And Ray is so into Fraser that he doesn't give a damn _what_ Fraser wants to do with him, because he is game for pretty much anything. He tries to convey this thought to Fraser.

"Yeah," Ray says, barely more than a whisper. "Anything you want. It's yours."

At that, Fraser bows his sinfully pretty head and takes Ray's cock into his mouth.

Ray can't help himself. His eyes shut involuntarily and his head falls back onto the pillow. It's not just the blow job -- although it's a hell of a blow job, he figures that out right away -- but it's Fraser, and Ray's been hanging his hat on this fantasy for more than a year now, ever since the guy walked into the 2-7, looking all bewildered and beautiful, and Ray started spending more time than was strictly healthy thinking about leather boots and snow.

Fraser's mouth is perfect, searingly hot, focused -- and there's just no way he's new at this. The thought of Fraser sucking dicks somewhere in his shadowy Mountie past makes Ray feel a little funny, a little tingly, like he's not sure if that's really hot or if he should be jealous. He lifts his head enough to look down his chest again, and watches Benton Fraser sucking his cock, fingers slowly jerking him, lips stretched around him, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, moving like he knows exactly what he's doing. Ray looks further down, and his dick jumps a little when he sees that Fraser has shoved his own underwear down and his blood-dark erection is brushing idly at Ray's leg.

Ray wonders what else Fraser knows how to do. He groans. "Fraser," he manages to say.

Fraser seems reluctant to respond. He sucks a little longer, his tongue coiling around the head of Ray's cock, and eventually pulls his mouth away, leaving one hand still wrapped around the root. The cool air on Ray's sensitive skin is shocking. When Fraser finally looks back up, his eyes are darker and hotter than Ray has ever seen them.

"Uh," Ray says, feeling a little stupid for having just interrupted the best sex he's had in years. He isn't even sure what he wants to say. He only knows that Fraser's hard -- hard and horny and beautiful, with Ray's cock in his wet, wet mouth. Ray finally settles on "C'mere," reaching down to tug at Fraser's body, turning him -- and Fraser, thank god, knows a hell of a lot more than he ever let on before, because he's losing the shorts completely, moving and shifting, and then it's perfect. Fraser's cock is right there where Ray can reach it, and Fraser is sucking Ray right back into his mouth again, from a different angle.

Ray moans again as Fraser starts sucking in earnest, and he gets with the program. Fraser's dick is a couple of inches from his face, thick and hard and shiny at the tip. Ray wraps his fingers around it and takes a moment to admire. Fraser's uncircumcised, which shouldn't come as a shock, being as he was probably born in an igloo and all. Actually, the whole uncut thing is pretty cool. Ray tries an experimental stroke, and Fraser, at his end of the bed, makes a noise around Ray's dick that sounds something like a whimper. _Very cool_, Ray decides, and pulls Fraser's cock into his mouth.

It's been a while for him; the well pretty much dried up when he agreed to take the Vecchio undercover gig. But there's no Vecchio in his bedroom right now: there's just him, Ray Kowalski, and Benton Fraser, the most beautiful man on either side of the border. So he doesn't owe anything to anyone, and he doesn't need to fake a thing. He loves this. Loves feeling Fraser in his mouth, loves the sucking. Loves the taste of bitter pre-come and clean, hot skin. Even more than that, though: he loves the crazy noises Fraser makes, and the way Fraser's hands clutch at his hips, and the way Fraser tries to match Ray's rhythm. He loves the way he can hum around Fraser's erection and distract him enough that Fraser forgets what he's doing altogether, mouth slack and moaning.

He's so focused on Fraser's cock that his own orgasm creeps up on him, barely giving him a moment's notice before he has to pull his mouth away so he doesn't hurt the guy. Then he's losing it: screwing his eyes up, thrusting helplessly forward, half-sobbing Fraser's name as he comes in Fraser's warm, wet mouth. The world goes dark and sort of silent. The aftershocks roll through his body like waves. Dimly, Ray is aware of Fraser releasing him and pressing closed-mouth kisses to Ray's hips and thighs. Feels good. Feels kind of sweet.

When he comes back to the real world, Fraser has climbed back to the top of the bed and wrapped himself completely around Ray's body, one hand stroking Ray's hair, one hand clinging possessively to his hip -- and, yeah, one hard, leaking cock thrusting gently against him.

Ray smiles slowly. "Fraser."

"Yes?" His voice is a hot, quiet breath in Ray's ear.

"You just did it again," Ray answers.

To his disappointment, Fraser stops rubbing his dick against Ray's thigh and starts to sound almost normal again. "Did what, Ray?"

He sighs contentedly and stretches an arm under Fraser, wrapping it around his shoulder. "You just almost killed me again."

"Ray, I can't possibly --" He stops mid-sentence. "Ah."

"Ah?"

"I ... see," Fraser tries, bringing his mouth back to Ray's ear.

Ray squirms and wonders if it's his imagination, or if he can actually get hard again this quickly. "You do, huh?"

"I take it," Fraser replies, nipping carefully at Ray's ear lobe, "that you meant the statement in a complimentary fashion."

"In a complimentary ..." Ray glances down to confirm that yes, that is definitely Fraser's rock-hard dick against his own hip, and the Mountie is _still_ using coherent sentences and Scrabble words. "Jeez," he mutters, turning slightly so he can see Fraser's dark eyes and touch Fraser's irresistible mouth with his own, "where are you _from_?"

Naturally, Fraser's face lights up. "Canada, Ray," he answers, and if Fraser said "Canada" that way all the time, Ray would be ready to immigrate in a heartbeat. As it is, Ray pushes Fraser onto his back before Fraser can even finish talking, licks his lips, and slides down Fraser's body to finish what they started.

He can tell right away that it isn't going to take much. Fraser's breath is erratic and his cock is leaking all over the place. And Fraser is _noisy_ \-- whispering Ray's name over and over, murmuring mostly incoherent words like "please" and "God." He never figured Fraser for a talker or a moaner, but then he never really figured that Fraser secretly wanted to suck him off.

Fraser, it turns out, is just full of surprises.

As Ray wraps his mouth around the head of Fraser's cock, Fraser cards his fingers through the stiff spikes of Ray's hair. At first, he just strokes, massaging Ray's scalp a little, but Ray can take a hint. He angles himself and looks up, so Fraser can see his face, and just looks at him for a moment -- giving permission, offering Fraser anything he wants. He knows his face is red; he feels a little slutty and a little dangerous. But then Fraser glances down and meets Ray's gaze. He shudders so hard that Ray can feel the tremors all the way down to Fraser's legs. He tightens his grip on Ray's hair, and Ray relaxes, letting Fraser push and thrust a little, letting Fraser get himself off with Ray's mouth. Fraser keeps moaning, and babbling, and he's so very, very careful with Ray -- never pulling too hard, never pushing too far -- that Ray finds himself moaning in concert, loving the feel of Fraser's fingers in his hair, loving the hard slide of Fraser's cock on his tongue.

Fraser's grip suddenly tightens, and then immediately relents as he runs his hands down the sides of Ray's face, cupping it in his hands. "Ray," he groans with urgency, "I can't --" Ray takes that as his clue to suck _more_, unrelenting, and sure enough, a moment later Fraser's cock gets impossibly harder and then he's gone, he's finished, that's all she wrote. One, two, three pulses, and Ray tries to take it all while Fraser's voice, crying _his_ name, rings in his ears.

Dazed, he continues to hold Fraser in his mouth, licking him through the aftershocks, until Fraser seizes a little and gently tugs Ray upwards by his hair. Ray follows willingly, settling at the head of the bed where he can see Fraser's face with its fine sheen of sweat.

Fraser doesn't say anything -- just rolls and grabs Ray again and kisses him, pushing his tongue deep into Ray's mouth. Ray's face turns hot when he realizes that Fraser's searching for his own taste. It feels a little like being eaten alive, but he's not complaining.

Fraser finally pulls away to breathe. He rests his forehead against Ray's, still holding onto him like he's never going to let go. Ray finds his arms full of naked, sweaty, sated Benton Fraser, and starts wondering what kind of saint he was in his former lives to earn this.

Fraser blinks and brings one hand up to carefully touch the space around Ray's eye. Ray is startled to realize that he'd forgotten all about the injury. He shakes off Fraser's latest apology by kissing him again.

Then Fraser clears his throat and starts talking. "I was thinking about what you said earlier," he murmurs.

Ray smirks. "Thinking, huh? If that was you _thinking_ just now, I obviously wasn't doing my job right."

He can tell already that watching Fraser look embarrassed and aroused at the same time is never going to get old. "Ray," Fraser says, half scolding him, but Ray just sucked his cock, and he's not buying any more of Fraser's demure, polite Mountie act.

"Okay," he concedes, "what were you thinking about?"

Fraser's gaze moves downward, like he's all over blow jobs, but looking Ray in the eye and having a conversation is too much to ask. "I want to live to see retirement, too," he finally says, and it takes Ray a whole five seconds to figure out what the hell he's talking about. When he does, he laughs.

"Fraser, you are never gonna live to see retirement," he says. "You could live to be a hundred and ten, and you'd still never see retirement. You take your job more seriously than anyone I know. They'll have to pry your Mountie hat from your wrinkly hands after you finally kick the bucket."

Fraser looks back up at him, sort of blankly, like he doesn't know how to react to that. It takes him a while to respond. "Justice is important, Ray. But," he says, and he grips Ray's shoulder urgently, "it isn't the only thing in my life that matters."

Ray looks at Fraser -- at his pale, perfect body, at his messy hair, and at his intensely blue eyes -- and realizes that they're having an important conversation here which he probably shouldn't fuck up. "Really?" he asks, hoping it doesn't sound like he's fishing for something that Fraser isn't ready or even able to offer.

"Yes, Ray. Really." Fraser's eyes turn away again -- and then, like he's fighting a battle with himself, he looks back and determinedly makes eye contact. "You must know how important you are to me," he finishes.

For a moment, Ray can't breathe. "Yeah," he finally manages. "Yeah. Then -- Fraser?" At his partner's answering nod, he continues. "Could you do something for me? Could you -- could you just try a little harder to keep us from getting killed? I'm not saying you can't chase after people with big guns or try to dismantle bombs or climb really big trees to rescue kittens -- whatever you feel like you have to do. I mean, I know that's you, that's your Mountie thing. Just -- could you maybe carry your _own_ gun once in a while, or at least a phone to call for backup? 'Cause it's kind of hard for me to shoot and dial at the same time, especially when I gotta worry about whether or not you're going to go out there, unarmed and with no cover, to try and talk someone out of killing us. And Fraser, could we maybe -- I don't know -- brainstorm other ways to disarm felons? Because if I don't get shot first, watching you do that all the damn time is eventually gonna give me a heart attack."

He stops. He knows it's kind of a tall order, but he figures it's worth a shot. He takes a breath and adds, "Besides, who else is gonna hang out with me when I'm a hundred and ten?"

Then Fraser smiles, wide and beautiful, and says yes to Ray in every possible way. Or at least Ray thinks he's saying yes. Fraser's sort of tricky like that. But he knows that Fraser is saying yes to _something_, and that something seems to be him, and it's a start.

So Monday, as it turns out, isn't so bad after all.


End file.
